The Taking (17 page)

Regan couldn’t even answer the question because she was struck dumb by the fact that he had called her photographs a collection of cemetery art. She hadn’t even really realized that all the photography and art she owned was in fact images from cemeteries. She had always been drawn to the still quiet beauty of the monuments, the statues, and the crumbling tombs, and was well aware of each individual purchase. But to say that indicated she was a collector of cemetery art, well, that made her uneasy.

“I work in historic cemetery preservation and restoration,” she said. “That is what the fund-raising party at my house is for. So it only stands to reason that I would be drawn to photographs of them.”

But while the words were logical, she doubted the veracity of them herself. How could she have never noticed that her interest was at the exclusion of all other subjects? Why was it that she had never bought one green pastoral scene? Even her largest piece, one she considered to be a portrait, was actually that of a weeping angel statue in the Metairie Cemetery.

“Sure, that stands to reason. It’s something that is clearly important to you. But why? Why does restoration of historic cemeteries matter? Why shouldn’t we just let them crumble to the ground tomb by tomb, the heat and humidity restoring the bricks, the marble, the bones of the interred back to the earth?”

It was a question her mother had asked her many times, though not in the same way. Her mom had always suggested she save historic homes instead of dirty old cemeteries. She had never bothered to try to explain it to her mother, but she turned and looked at Felix. Maybe he would understand. He certainly seemed open to different ideas, if his choice of occupation was any indication.

“Because they’re beautiful, peaceful tributes to humanity. When they were built, each tomb mattered to the people who built it. They invested money, time, love into erecting a place for their loved ones to spend eternity, and it seems the height of disrespect to just let them, and the remains they contain, be destroyed.”

“I see. Do you know much about Victorian mourning practices?” he asked, not looking at her, but arranging the photos on the table in a grid.

“No, not really.”

“Before the Victorians, before anyone really understood how disease was transmitted, when someone died their body was discarded as quickly as possible. The thought was to get them as far from the living as possible so they didn’t spread death. The fear of death was greater than the fear of showing disrespect to a loved one. Then in Victorian times, even though they really had no better understanding of disease, they created elaborate death rituals, huge, lengthy periods of mourning, and the interest in spiritualism and contacting the dead rose. What they were afraid of was life, living without the dead.”

Regan watched his fingers move, long and beautiful for a man, masculine yet not stubby or dirty or hairy. Elegant, in a way, the silver ring he wore simple and well suited to him. He brushed them over the glass gently, his care in touch so different from his voice, which frequently sounded gruff and almost angry. Felix was a gorgeous man, and unlike any she had ever met. The men she’d been raised with, who moved in her social circles, blurred into a tie-wearing mass of confident, entitled materialists, their focus almost invariably themselves and their professional success.

She had never met a man who spoke the way Felix did about any manner of strange things and made it sound casual, conversational. And he never talked about himself, which was a foreign concept to her. Men she knew thought of themselves as their favorite subject.

It didn’t sound like he was finished, so she said nothing, just waited.

He seemed to find a pattern he liked with the photos and reached for a nail as he continued speaking. “Can you imagine being in mourning for a year, which meant wearing black every day, never attending balls or parties, not getting married during that time or doing anything that might be considered too much fun, and then maybe being out of mourning for only a month before some other unfortunate relative died and you had to haul out the black crepe again.”

She stood there mute, while he tapped the nail with the hammer, sending it into the wall, and hung the photograph, stepping back to check its position. She was equal parts fascinated by what he was saying and by the fact that he had just taken it upon himself to hang her photos in the way he liked.

Felix turned and stared at her, unsmiling. “Fear of death versus fear of living. A strange shift in society, don’t you think? Though easily explained by circumstances. But I find myself wondering which applies to you. Are you afraid to die or are you afraid to live?”

The anxiety Regan had felt before Felix entered the house returned full force. The telltale trickle of sweat was back between her breasts, and her throat was constricted, the urge to flee reminiscent of her final months with her ex-husband.

“I ... I don’t know.” For some reason her right hand went to her left, to twist the wedding ring that was no longer there. When she realized what she was doing, she dropped both hands. “I’ve never really thought of my fears in either of those ways.”

“What are your fears, Regan Henry Alcroft?” he asked, picking up another photograph, one of Marie Laveau’s tomb, ironically enough.

The voodoo priest held the voodoo priestess’s final resting place in his hand.

“I’m afraid of snakes,” she said carefully. “And my name is not Alcroft.”

“Perhaps that is your real fear... that living sometimes is far too similar to death. Empty, pointless, lonely.”

It was a horrifically accurate description of her marriage, yet Regan saw the pain in his eyes, the stark bald suffering of a lonely man. She reached out and touched his arm, thinking to offer compassion, to let him know she understood, that she could be a friend, someone he could talk to. “Are we talking about me or about you?” she asked gently.

“We’re never talking about me. That subject is not open for discussion.” He moved his arm so that her hand dropped away from his skin.

Regan felt bewildered, wounded. “Yet you can ask me personal questions?”

“Isn’t that what you want from me? Someone to talk to, someone to explain the mystery of life and death and the spirit world to you...”

Felix moved toward her, abandoning the photograph on the table, his steps slow, but purposeful. “Or is there something else you want from me?” His voice was hypnotic, yet mocking, and she didn’t understand what he was doing, the point of the conversation, what he wanted her to say.

She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t want anything from you.”

“Yes, you do.” His hand lifted up and connected with her hair, pulling the strands she had tucked behind her ear out, his touch gentle, seductive. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?”

Yes. But hearing him say it out loud, so crass, so matter-of-fact, Regan felt the burn of humiliation, followed by anger. “It’s time for you to leave,” she said, now the one to back out of his touch, out of his space, breaking contact with his manipulative, mesmerizing eyes.

“Don’t be offended. I’m just saying what we both know.” That was just what she did not want to hear, him pointing out that she was a pathetic undersexed divorcee who was dangling after the hot guy she couldn’t have. It was beyond embarrassing to realize she had been so transparent, so unsophisticated and obvious. “Get out,” she said, tightly.

She’d rather face the spirits in her house alone than have him there for one second longer.

Felix gave her that half smile he so frequently wore. “Sure.” He moved around her, his shoulders brushing her, and his mouth leaning in close to her ear. “But just for the record, I want to fuck you, too.”

Regan shivered, goose bumps rushing up her arms from disgust, arousal, fear, she wasn’t sure. Maybe all of the above.

Then he grabbed the research papers he’d brought for her and crumpled them in a ball, taking them with him. Without a single glance back he was gone, the front door slamming a brutal exclamation point to his departure.

Felix burst out onto Royal Street, swearing at himself. What the hell was he doing? He had intentionally pissed Regan off, knowing she would throw him out. He had needed to get out of there. Looking at her wide, innocent, compassionate eyes was torture.

And he knew torture.

He had been fine. Distant, in control, listening to her story of what had happened in her house—Camille’s house. Then suddenly she had looked at him, like she saw the truth. Like she knew he hurt, and wanted to comfort him, of all things.

My God, it had been so tempting, so fucking tempting to let her. But he knew the real truth. There was no comfort for him, and no woman would ever really be capable of giving to him. That was his curse. They could take, but they could never give.

What he had done, bargain for the right to take, meant he had been served the same in kind—no woman would ever want him. They would just want.

It was a brutal distinction, and for a split second he had seen something else on Regan’s face, a false promise, and he needed to squash that hope in himself before it sprouted. She was no different. It would never be different.

He knew that. Had chewed, swallowed, and digested that bitter lesson a hundred times over.

Felix’s footsteps ate up the short block to Bourbon Street. He needed a drink.

He started to turn right, to head to Lafitte’s, a dark moody tavern, but he changed his mind and turned left, letting the neon lights of the flashier bars splash over him. The street was still jumping, partygoers stumbling in and out of clubs, clutching plastic cups, wearing Mardi Gras beads.

The thought was to be anonymous, to go unnoticed on the busy street, but all it did was remind him that he was alone, always alone. He told himself this was his world, that of entertainment in exchange for money, that he was the game show host with a revolving door of contestants.

It might be how he had to exist, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

A woman stumbled in front of him and Felix grabbed her arm to steady her. She tried to glance back and thank him, but her eyes were glassy from alcohol, and the movement of her head threw her off balance again.

She couldn’t make eye contact with him.

Felix let her go and her friend locked arms with her. They tottered away and Felix cut down Orleans Street and headed home.

There was nothing here for him.

Regan finished hanging every last photograph and piece of art in her living room, pounding viciously into the plaster with her hammer, angry with herself.

Felix had known all along that she was attracted to him.

The thought that he might think she had made up excuses to see him was a very mortifying fear. It rolled around and around in her head, a refrain of insecurity. Why had he left like that?

Unable to stand it anymore, Regan sent Felix a text message. She wrote,
Thanks for coming over,
and hit SEND before she could change her mind.

Three hours later she finally fell asleep on the couch, Camille’s journal in her hands.

Felix never answered.